


your heartbeat was the first sound I heard

by MistakenMagic



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Separation Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 15:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistakenMagic/pseuds/MistakenMagic
Summary: "Bilbo had never thought of himself and Thorin as particularly noisy people. In fact, his husband frequently chided him for sneaking about their chambers. Thorin himself was prone to long periods of silence, especially during the evenings after busy days, when it would be up to Bilbo to coax him into conversation. He and Thorin were not ones who clanged and clanked about through life, but over the past three weeks, Bilbo had discovered just how quiet life really was when they were separated."





	your heartbeat was the first sound I heard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shipsicle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipsicle/gifts).



> Hello, everyone! I’m sneaking this little one-shot in before Christmas as a gift for the absolutely wonderful Shipsicle, who is a dear friend and an incredibly talented artist. This fic was inspired by Ship’s beautiful artwork, which can be found in the story below. 
> 
> You know, I’ve written Modern AUs and merfolk and for galaxies far, far, away, but this is the first time I’ve ever written a Middle Earth AU, so I’m both quite nervous and quite excited! 
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy my efforts and that wherever you’re reading this, it’s somewhere cosy and warm :)

Bilbo Baggins awoke with a start. The breath that had shot straight to the back of his throat reluctantly dispersed itself as he rubbed a hand over his curls, untangling his legs from the twist of heavy bedsheets. He rolled onto his side and was greeted, just as last night, and the night before that, with the desolate space of an otherwise empty bed. It was a bleak, uncomfortable sight and Bilbo closed his eyes, as if attempting to vanish it. Still, his hand slid beneath the quilts, feeling its way until fingers found the soft, cool shape of Thorin’s absence. Bilbo let out a quiet sigh and tucked his hand back into his chest.

He had quite expected to enjoy having a large bed to himself again, after spending so many years at Bag End with himself as the only occupant, able to flap his arms and legs about on the sheets like a fauntling making a snow angel at Yuletide. However, as the weeks dragged on, Bilbo found himself waking every morning – and frequently during the night – nestled firmly on his side of the bed, his body never daring to stray beyond its territory, even whilst lost to sleep. On the odd occasion, he had woken with a hand stretched out, seeking the elusive warmth of another body, but then it was promptly returned to its rightful place as Bilbo’s eyes scanned the flattened, creaseless fields of bedsheets where once there had been a welcome, gently stirring mountain range.

The room was quiet, unnervingly so. The only sound was the steady crackle of the collapsed fire in the grate that cast flickering, dark gold shadows across the walls. Bilbo had never thought of himself and Thorin as particularly noisy people. In fact, his husband frequently chided him for sneaking about their chambers. Thorin himself was prone to long periods of silence, especially during the evenings after busy days, when it would be up to Bilbo to coax him into conversation. He and Thorin were not ones who clanged and clanked about through life, but over the past three weeks, Bilbo had discovered just how quiet life really was when they were separated.

He no longer woke to Thorin’s muffled snores, or to the endearing sounds of his beloved creeping about the room when the need came for him to rise early and he didn’t want Bilbo to stir unnecessarily. He no longer woke to the soft scrape of bristles as Thorin’s chin pressed into his shoulder, or a heartbeat thudding with an assured rhythm beneath the palm of his hand, filling their chambers with its steady thunder, like the room’s very own heartbeat. And thus the room was only saved from silence by the dying fire hissing and clicking its glowing tongue as it slowly crumbled into its own shadow.

Bilbo lifted himself onto his elbows so that he could give the fire the attention it clearly wanted and was surprised to find that two of the coals had fallen away, revealing narrow ovals of glowing red light, as if a curiously devilish creature was looking right back at him. With a stream of furious muttering, Bilbo swung his legs out and rose from the bed, pattering over to the hearth. He grabbed the long poker from its place on the mantle and took more delight than was strictly necessary in jabbing it into the waning coals. The fire spat and sparked like a feral cat, but was still reluctantly stoked back to life.

Straightening up and relinquishing the poker, Bilbo’s eyes fell on his husband’s handsomely carved armoire that stood in the corner of the room. He could remember the afternoon, almost three weeks ago now, that he had spent helping Thorin pack for his official visit to the Iron Hills. They had emptied most of its furs and cloaks and thick tunics as Bilbo fussed over Thorin, ensuring he would be warm and well-equipped for the journey to his cousin and then the one back again. Winter was well upon them, just as it had been five years ago when Dáin and his army came to their aid, and Bilbo would not have Thorin survive that battle only to be struck down by frostbite during a diplomatic visit.

That thought was not a pleasant one, and it only strengthened Bilbo’s resolve as he approached the wardrobe, feeling more than enticed by its large, looming presence. The door opened with a soft creak and Bilbo reached inside, slowly lifting one of Thorin’s thin shirts – much more suited to milder summer weather – from its hanger. He held it in both hands, thumbs brushing over the delicate embroidery, and then carefully lifted it to his face. His nose twitched as he breathed in Thorin’s scent, finally allowing himself the indulgence he had been otherwise denied since the night his husband left. Well, he was a burglar after all.

Stealing back to bed with his prize, Bilbo wrapped the sheets around himself and pressed the shirt into his chest, pressed it firmly into the ache that was growing there, and tucked the soft fabric under his chin so that he might continue to soak up this reminder of Thorin. The shirt was only an echo of his husband’s presence, the shirt had no heartbeat and it made no sound, but still it was just enough to lull Bilbo back into a light and uneasy sleep.

 

…

 

Adjusting the second ring of gold just beneath the pointed tip of his ear, Bilbo frowned as his fingers brushed over the delicate bead of his marriage braid. It had taken him an awfully long time to learn the Dwarven art of braiding – something dwarflings were taught from the moment their pudgy fingers became dextrous enough to handle strands of hair – and he still hadn’t quite got the hang of it. Thorin usually attended to both his own braids and the one that hung down in front of his beloved’s left ear. The one which was now looking both a little limp and a little unruly, as if Bilbo had lost a fight with a garden hedge. He knew Grefur or Osrin would happily help him with his braiding if he asked, but he was also heavily aware of the Dwarven traditions surrounding the marriage braid, and it would have been highly unusual for anyone but his husband to tend to his hair. And so Bilbo was left staring at his own reflection in the mirror, looking more than a little miserable at this latest difficulty presented by his and Thorin’s separation.

With another quiet sigh, he lifted the simple yet beautifully-crafted gold circlet from its box and settled it onto his head. Preparing to leave his chambers, Bilbo stopped when he caught sight of the small, non-descript scroll sitting on his bedside table. Thorin had written only once, to confirm that their company had arrived safely in the Iron Hills, but the message, brief as it was, had still held such tenderness and warmth, such love and promises of a swift return, that Bilbo had been unable to part with it from his bedside. He had thought, many times over the past week, of writing to Thorin, simply sending a raven with his good wishes and banal updates of the running of the kingdom in his absence… but he realised that his husband, who knew him better than anyone in the whole of Arda, would be able to read the distress between his happy and mundane lines, be able to sense his misery and longing in every word, and so Bilbo had decided not to write. He didn’t want to worry Thorin unnecessarily and knowing his penchant for overreactions, didn’t want the entire official visit to be cut short as Thorin rode through day and night to return to him in Erebor. No, that just wouldn’t do, and so Bilbo’s quill sat firmly in its inkwell and the ravens stayed warm in their roosts.

Resisting the urge to open the scroll and read Thorin’s letter for the umpteenth time, Bilbo stepped from his chambers and made his way through the sitting room to the corridor of the Royal Apartments, and then on into the dining room for breakfast. There was a fire crackling quite merrily in the grate and the space was well-lit considering its place at the very heart of the Mountain: their apartments being a veritable and purposefully-built stronghold. The long, darkened mahogany dining table dominated the room, and yet, with every single chair empty, it appeared rather ominous as Bilbo made his way to his usual seat.

Breakfast in the Royal Apartments was generally a rather boisterous affair as everyone prepared for their respective duties. Fíli and Kíli would sing and tease and steal food from each other’s plates as they proceeded to eat half their body weights in eggs and bacon, Dís would only intervene when it stopped being amusing for her, and Balin and Dwalin would snipe at each other as if they were dwarflings again until one of them left to attend to the running of the Mountain.

But Thorin had taken Fíli and Kíli with him to the Iron Hills. As Crown Prince and heir to the throne, Fíli needed the diplomatic experience, and it was thought that Kíli would make too much of a nuisance of himself if left behind, and so he too had saddled up and departed with his uncle and his brother. Dwalin had accompanied them as Captain of the Guard, sworn to protect the royal family, and Dís had returned to Ered Luin before the first snows set in to help their remaining people through the winter. Balin, however, had stayed behind in Erebor to help Bilbo in his duties as Prince-Consort and together they had ensured that the Mountain hadn’t crumbled and fallen in its king’s absence. The Company were also welcome to take meals in the Royal Apartments, but Bilbo knew they were all busy in their trades, ensuring that life in Erebor kept on running as it had done for the past five years. Balin, too, had no doubt breakfasted early and was now preparing the Council Chambers for their morning meeting.

“Good morning, your majesty!”

Bilbo managed to supress his noise of alarm, jolted as he was from his thoughts as Grefur entered the dining room through the doors which led to the servants’ quarters. The Chief of Staff gave a short bow and then pulled out one of the two chairs at the head of the table.

“I trust that you slept well, sir?” he asked kindly, as he did every morning, smile wide in his neatly braided silver beard.

Bilbo carefully lowered himself into the chair, relieved that Grefur couldn’t see his grimace as he attempted to compose himself. “Quite well, thank you, Grefur.”

“Now, your majesty, what can I get you for breakfast? Bombur has prepared some quite delicious salted pork sandwiches with the trimmings from yesterday’s roast.”

Bilbo’s stomach gave a sickly lurch at the thought of something so rich, but he hoped he managed to keep his expression neutral as he answered: “That does sound lovely, but I think a bowl of porridge would be more appropriate… I, er, never can stomach much before council meetings.”

Grefur nodded in understanding, but Bilbo saw the flicker in his brown eyes. This was the fifth morning where he had ordered nothing but porridge, and he was sure his Chief of Staff was well aware that he had taken to skipping meals.

“Of course, sir,” Grefur replied, with no detectable hint of concern. “Will you take tea as well?”

With Bilbo’s thank you and murmur of the affirmative, Grefur disappeared back through the door to the servants’ quarters, leaving Bilbo once again alone in the dining room. The silence returned, the same silence from his waking in the early hours of the morning, the space only stirred by the cackling of the fire. He had never believed a room could feel so empty, and as Bilbo flexed his fingers in his lap, the gnawing ache in his chest began to press its teeth against his ribcage.

The increasingly disturbing quiet was broken when Grefur returned, expertly balancing his breakfast on a silver tray. Bilbo said nothing as the Dwarf laid the place before him and set a steaming bowl of thick porridge swirled with honey under his nose. The honey was a new addition, as was the plate of heavily buttered crusty toast which now sat next to the sugar bowl. Grefur made no comment, but Bilbo knew he was obviously starting to worry the royal household staff. They would never ask him, but still they seemed to be doing their best to silently rectify whatever was plaguing their consort.

“Have there been any ravens this morning?” Bilbo asked, slowly dipping his spoon in the porridge and attempting to keep his voice even as his chest tightened. “Or any during the night?”

“No, sir,” Grefur replied, pouring a stream of richly-coloured tea into Bilbo’s cup.

Bilbo remembered his early days in the Royal Apartments when he had refused to let anyone pour his tea for him or fold his clothes or draw his bath. It had been a long war, waged over many years, with Bilbo finally being defeated by the staff’s never-ending politeness and the firmness of their ‘yes, sirs’. Thorin seemed to have found the whole thing extremely amusing as his Hobbit attempted to out-do their servants with his manners. It was almost painful to remember the smirk on his husband’s lips as he purposefully dropped clothes on the floor and made a mess of their chambers, just to wind Bilbo up as he ran around picking everything up after him. And now, no word. Not that this was concerning, but still Bilbo found himself longing for another scroll.

“No word from his majesty?” Bilbo clarified, before mentally chiding himself for asking.

“No, sir,” Grefur answered gently. “But the royal party will have left the Iron Hills by now, so they will no longer have the benefit of ravens.”

Bilbo nodded, stirring the honey into his porridge. “And you don’t believe the snow will slow them down in their return?”

“I don’t think so, your majesty. The last snowfall was four days ago and it is mild enough that the paths won’t be icy for the ponies. I’m sure the King will return as expected.”

Bilbo managed a smile at that. Two more days, just two more days and then Thorin would be home, would be sleeping at his side, and there would finally be an end to the awful silence. “Thank you, Grefur.”

Grefur lowered his head with a smile of his own. “Would you like me to run through your schedule for the day, sir?”

“Please,” Bilbo replied, swallowing his first spoonful of porridge and wishing he didn’t feel a creeping dread at the long day to come.

“You are chairing the weekly council meeting at ten o’clock, followed by an appointment with the tailors’ guild at midday. You are due to inspect the Royal Guard at two o’ clock and then observe one of their training sessions at three. Your final commitment of the day is a meeting with representatives of King Bard in the throne room at five o’ clock.”

Bilbo slowly set down his spoon, trying not to notice the slight tremble that had developed in his fingers.

“Will that be all, your majesty?” Grefur asked, the picture of tact.

“Yes, thank you, Grefur. I, er, hope your day proves to be a little less busy.”

“You’re welcome, sir. I find my duties have become slightly less in number since the princes left the Mountain,” Grefur said, with a knowing smile, before giving another short bow and leaving the dining room.

Bilbo’s eyes moved from the bowl of porridge before him to the desolate expanse of the empty dinner table, the ache nipping just beneath his collarbone. He closed slightly shaking fingers around his spoon as the fire continued its crackling laughter in the grate and the only heartbeat to be heard was his own, thumping heavily beneath his ribs.

 

…

 

It was with a slow and weary step that Bilbo returned to the Royal Apartments that evening. There was a sharp, puncturing pain needling at his temples, spreading up behind his eyes, and the ache in his chest hadn’t abated since his meagre breakfast. Stepping into the sitting room, Bilbo was greeted once again with the unnerving quiet. What was usually a welcome sight – his armchair, piles of beautifully-bound books on the low table, a crackling fire – held no warmth or delight for him. Thorin’s absence was everywhere, pervading their private chambers like a sinister mist, prickling at the curls on his feet and settling with a sickly weight over his shoulders.

Unable to bear the sight of his husband’s empty armchair, Bilbo moved through into their bedchambers. Last night’s fire had been roused from its dark, smoky slumber and now flames were consuming the coals, licking at the blackened stone at the back of the fireplace. Bilbo eyed the room’s spitting silence-breaker with distaste and then went over to the dressing table to slip off his circlet.

And that was when something caught his eye in the corner of the many-panelled mirror.

Whirling around, Bilbo’s heart stilled for a second inside his chest as he took in the sight of the empty bedside table. Thorin’s letter was gone. He stumbled over to the table with a strangled cry, frantically running his hands over the smooth wood, as if hoping that his eyes were deceiving him and his fingers would suddenly brush over crisp parchment and the ridges of the wax seal. But his hands found nothing in their search. Throwing open the drawer, Bilbo rummaged through the various sentimental trinkets and more mundane items, desperately hoping he had put the scroll away for safe-keeping and simply forgotten… and yet Thorin’s letter failed to appear, not hidden beneath box nor vial nor journal.

Staggering away from the bedside table, Bilbo felt pain explode behind his eyes as his breathing became heavier, heart rioting beneath his ribs. It was then that a wave of nausea hit him as a dark voice, dripping with menace and malevolence, whispered that Thorin may never had written, that in his longing he had simply imagined the correspondence… In fact, was he even sure that his husband would be returning to him at all…?

Shaking the thought away with a violence that made his temples throb, Bilbo almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the creak of a door and a clatter sounding from the sitting room. He forced himself forward through the doorway and found Grefur setting down a silver tray containing a plate of fruit scones and tea for one on the low table.

The Chief of Staff straightened up to give his bow. “I thought you might appreciate some tea after a rather hectic day, your majesty.”

Bilbo’s look was more than a little wild-eyed as he moved into the room. “Who… who has been in our chambers today…?” he gasped out, throat feeling tight.

Grefur’s expression remained impressively neutral as he replied: “Osrin came to light the fires this afternoon and Elís will have collected your laundry this morning… Is there something the matter, sir?”

“There was… a letter from the King on my bedside table…” Bilbo said, trying and failing to regain a composure more befitting Erebor’s Prince-Consort. “Someone has taken it… Someone has come here and taken it…”

“Have you checked your desk, your majesty?” Grefur offered.

“My… my desk?” Bilbo murmured, eyes moving to the heavy oak writing desk set up in the corner of the room.

“Osrin is responsible for filing all your correspondences, perhaps it is in one of the storage holes?” Grefur explained, gesturing to the desk, without moving any closer to it.

Feeling his heartbeat hasten in its irregular thumping, Bilbo crossed the room to the desk. There was a set of nine square storage holes built into the set of drawers, just below his collection of quills and inks… and there, sure enough, sitting in the bottom left hand square, was Thorin’s scroll. Bilbo snatched it up, feeling only marginally better for being able to feel the scratchy parchment against his fingertips.

“This… this is a private letter,” he stammered, anger flashing in his gaze.

“Osrin won’t have read it, your majesty,” Grefur said gently, “he only files using the official seals on all your letters.”

“But it is completely unnecessary!” Bilbo snapped. “I am more than capable of sorting through my own scrolls and this letter should not have been moved!”

“Of course, sir,” came Grefur’s calm reply. “I will tell Osrin to leave all correspondence filing to you in future.”

Bilbo was about to agree when the wave of nausea smacked into him again and he shot out a trembling hand to the desk to steady himself, hearing his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“Your majesty!” Grefur was at his side in an instant. “Shall I fetch Master Oin?”

“No!” Bilbo said sharply, not missing the Chief of Staff’s flinch as he took a step back. Slowly exhaling, Bilbo pressed one finger to his temple. “I… I’m sorry, Grefur… It’s just been a very long day… I promise I’m fine, just a little tired.”

Grefur had decided not to mask the worry in his eyes as he answered: “I understand, sir… But are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you?”

Bilbo shook his head, knowing the one thing he really needed was very, very far away from him. “I’m sure… and thank you for… for helping me find his majesty’s letter… I’m sorry I spoke so harshly to you.”

Grefur smiled kindly at that. “There is no need to apologise, your majesty. I hear far worse from the princes when I give them their wake-up calls every morning.”

“I’m sure you do,” Bilbo said, managing half a smile, but also making a mental note to reprimand Fíli and Kíli when they returned… His heart gave a painful double-thump. “I… I should like to be left alone tonight.”

“Of course, sir. I will make sure you are not disturbed.”

“Thank you, Grefur.”

Knowing he was being dismissed, Grefur gave a short bow and then returned to his duties, leaving Bilbo alone once more with Thorin’s letter pressed tightly against the throbbing ache within his chest.

 

…

 

_“No, no, no, no, no, no, Thorin! The eagles… the eagles are here…”_

_Bilbo pointed desperately into the cold, colourless sky at the circling shadows above, the fingers of his other hand tangling in Thorin’s dark hair._

_“The eagles…”_

_The palm of his hand came to rest flat against his beloved’s chest and Bilbo froze, horror trickling through his veins as he turned to see Thorin’s empty eyes, staring vacantly up at him, all light extinguished._

_“Thorin! Thorin… the eagles are… the ea---”_

_But Thorin gave no reply: the colour had faded from his bloodied cheeks, no spark of life was left within him. Bilbo pressed his hand against his chest, but the heart beneath it was still and silent._

“Thorin!”

Bilbo sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving, a cold sweat plastering darkened curls to his forehead and the back of his neck. He looked wildly around the room, fingers curling into the bedsheets in his lap, eyes following the golden, ghostly light that was flickering across the walls, but there was nothing out of place, no shadows lurking in the room’s darkened corners… He was alone, as he had been when he turned in for the night.

The nightmare was seared into his waking mind, and it continued its taunting by flashing images of Thorin’s broken body laid out in the snow before Bilbo’s opened eyes… But then he dropped his gaze to his hands, breathed in deeper breaths, and tried to calm himself. It was a dream and nothing more. It held no truth, it had no power to hurt him. He wiped the wet strands of hair from his forehead with the back of his hand and rubbed at his neck. He only wished the nightmare was not so familiar to him… he had been trapped within its cold, icy walls at least four times in the past week.

Reaching beneath the tangle of bedclothes, Bilbo pulled out Thorin’s shirt, wrapping it around his hands and holding it against his face. It had somewhat lost its scent since the previous night and it now felt so very insubstantial between his fingers: only a wraith, a thin, fading reminder of his beloved.

_“Thorin! The eagles… the eagles are here…”_

Gritting his teeth together, Bilbo suddenly clambered from the bed and went straight to Thorin’s armoire, throwing the doors open. Within minutes he had pulled every single item of clothing from the hangers, piling them high in his arms, before carrying them back over to Thorin’s side of the bed where he dumped them in an unceremonious heap. Climbing onto the covers, Bilbo quickly set about arranging them into a suitable shape, moulding them into a comforting and familiar mountain range.

Finally satisfied, he retreated beneath the bedsheets and snuggled into his creation, burying his nose into the fur of his husband’s remaining travel cloak and wrapping his fingers around a nightshirt. He nudged and nuzzled at the pile until he was comfortable and then, letting out a soft sigh, surrendered himself to the unsettling realm of sleep.

 

…

 

He hadn’t intended to come here. The morning had been a difficult one: after Grefur had left him to his tea and honeyed porridge – served with sides of crispy bacon and a heap of sausages – Bilbo had been called upon to settle a dispute between two leading members of the masons’ guild. The meeting had dragged on and on, demanding that Bilbo summon every ounce of strength he still possessed to remain calm and tactful when faced with the fury of the two wronged tradesmen. When their negotiations had finally drawn to a close, with a satisfactory outcome for at least one party, Bilbo had fully intended to return to the Royal Apartments. But then he had found himself descending into Erebor’s vaults instead.

It was a place he had been to only once before: for the funerals of Dáin’s soldiers who were to be buried amongst their ancestors, deep within the caverns of the Mountain. The vaults were poorly lit, a sparse scattering of torches barely illuminating Bilbo’s way as he moved slowly around the tombs, his bare feet treading silently against the freezing stone. The only sound was the distant dripping of unseen water and Bilbo felt he had somehow found himself walking about the darkest, deepest trench at the bottom of the sea.

Holding in a breath, he dared to reach out his fingers to the stone slab before him and trace the runes inscribed there. He was certain he would recognise Thorin’s sigil or his runes, but he was yet to find them amongst the names of the dead. A shiver ran through him as he moved over to a statue of one of Erebor’s ancient kings, from whom his husband was no doubt descended. He hadn’t found Thorin’s likeness amongst any of the statues, but still his eyes moved over all the inscriptions, both searching out and dreading finding the familiar letters…

“There you are, laddie!”

Bilbo spun around with a choked cry, eyes widening as Balin stepped into the vaults.

“We’ve been looking for you for over an hour,” the old Dwarf said, voice soft, and he approached Bilbo as one would an injured animal. “I didn’t quite believe the guards who said they saw you heading this way… Any particular reason you’ve chosen our vaults for your little stroll?”

Bilbo coughed and stepped away from the statue, trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks. “I… er, I just needed some… some peace and quiet.”

“Aye, well, you’d be sure to find it amongst the dead,” Balin replied, with a twinkle in his eyes, but Bilbo couldn’t quite muster a smile.

“Am… I needed for something?” he asked, straightening up and adjusting his circlet.

“A raven arrived this morning,” came Balin’s answer, his expression warm, seeming almost giddy. “The King will be here within the hour!”

“W-what…?” Bilbo stuttered, pain flashing across his chest as overwhelming feelings of relief and doubt and apprehension clashed beneath his ribs. “But the royal party isn’t due back until tomorrow evening…”

“Aye, but I gather they set out earlier than planned… Obviously got fed up of drinking Dáin’s ale,” Balin said, with a wink. “We’re to meet them in the throne room.”

“I should get ready,” Bilbo whispered, his heart rising into his throat and his stomach wriggling around inside him.

“Let’s be having you then,” Balin said, seeming to agree as he stretched out his hand and gestured for Bilbo to join him in ascending the stone staircase and returning to the world of the living.

 

…

 

A cheer rose up as the double doors were opened and the royal party stepped out onto the high walkway. Bilbo was waiting for them on the dais before the throne, Balin at his side, with a group of nobles and counsellors clustered around them. Many of Erebor’s inhabitants were also gathered in the hall beneath the walkway, hoping to welcome their King. They peered up as the party passed over them, dipping into bows and curtsies, but also waving and giving shouts of joy as they caught a glimpse of the royal family.

Bilbo forced himself to appear calm and composed as he waited for Thorin to join him, but his heart was rabbiting inside his chest and the second his husband had appeared, his vision had blurred, his eyes prickling with hot tears. He desperately tried to blink them away and held trembling hands respectfully behind his back.

Thorin was grinning broadly as he came to a stop before them, although Bilbo didn’t miss the shine in his eyes, nor the grey shadows etched beneath them. Bilbo bowed along with the rest of the courtiers, and then Thorin was striding forward, reaching out to take his hands. It was both too much and not enough: Bilbo was desperate to have Thorin in his arms, to be able to snuggle into his chest, to be alone in their private rooms so that he might attempt to untangle the thoughts inside his head and relieve the biting ache within his chest. Still, he had his duties, and he would not ruin his beloved’s return.

“Welcome home, your majesty,” he murmured, hoping no one heard the slight crack in his voice.

“Thank you, ghivashel,” Thorin replied, his voice so tender and warm, pushing Bilbo to the very limits of his self-restraint. “I’m glad to be back… and happy to see you haven’t let the Mountain crumble into dust in my absence.”

There was a soft titter of laughter from everyone gathered, with the exception of Bilbo, whose throat was too dry to manage it.

“A luncheon has been prepared for you in the Royal Apartments,” he explained quietly, trying not to think about the fact that he would have to sit through an entire meal before finally finding himself alone with Thorin.

“Thank, Mahal! I’m starving!” Kíli piped up, only to be promptly whacked on the arm by his brother.

“You can’t seriously be starving, Kee! You’ve done nothing but eat for the past three weeks!”

There was more laughter as Kíli went on to explain in detail just how much he had missed Bombur’s cooking.

Thorin cast a fond glance back at his nephews before addressing the room. “Well, I see no reason to stand on ceremony. I thank the Prince-Consort for ruling in my stead during my official visit to the Iron Hills, and relieve him of this duty forthwith.” He turned to Bilbo. “Come, Bilbo, I want to hear all about the disasters you diverted whilst I was away…”

Thorin relinquished Bilbo’s hands only to have one return and press lightly against the small of his back, guiding him down the walkway. A troubled expression flickered in his husband’s blue eyes, but Bilbo made no mention of it as he allowed himself to be led towards the doors, the rest of their party following on behind.

“I very much enjoyed chairing your council meetings,” he murmured, looking across at Thorin, hoping he couldn’t feel him shaking.

“Now, I know that’s a lie,” Thorin chuckled, leaning a little closer to him as they passed through the doors.

The short walk to the Royal Apartments proved to be especially torturous, with Bilbo being so physically close to Thorin, feeling the heat of his hand against his back or his arm, but unable to properly reach for him, unable to hold him the way he so desperately needed to. Thorin seemed to have grown a little paler, his brow furrowed as they finally entered the Apartments and were met by Grefur and Osrin, who gave simultaneous bows.

“Welcome back, your majesty,” Grefur said warmly. “Luncheon is about to be served, if you would like to make your way through to the dining room?”

“Thank you, Grefur, but the Prince-Consort and I shall be retiring to our rooms,” Thorin replied, making Bilbo’s stomach lurch. “It’s been a long journey, and I should like to rest.”

At that moment, Kíli decided to make a rather rude hand gesture, and Dwalin promptly cuffed him.

“Of course, sir… Would yourself and the Prince-Consort like a lunch to be made up and brought to your rooms?”

“A very kind offer, Grefur, but I’m sure we’ll manage for now.”

Grefur gave a short bow as Osrin stepped forward and opened the door which led to the sitting room. Bilbo let Thorin steer him through and the second he heard the door close behind them he stumbled, sinking into his husband’s side with a miserable sob. Thorin wrapped an arm around his waist to support him and guided Bilbo into their bedchambers. The mountain range of clothes was still spread out on the bed, but Thorin paid them no mind as he sat down and pulled a shaking Bilbo to him.

“Shhh, ghivashel…” he whispered, quickly unbuttoning his travelling cloak and guiding one of Bilbo’s hands beneath his tunic, pressing it flat against his chest. “Shhh… There we are… I'm here… I’m safe and I’m right here with you…”

Bilbo let out another choked sob as Thorin held him close, one arm around his back, pressing a kiss to his forehead and another to his curls, before tucking his head beneath his chin. It was an old routine, one born from troubled dreams and from healing, but Bilbo found the two of them falling back into it with ease. Thorin knew exactly what he needed without a word having to pass between them, and Bilbo finally allowed himself to crumble, to lose all composure and give up any pretences, and let Thorin hold him through the worst of it.

“Deep breaths, Bilbo… That’s it, keep taking those deep breaths…” Thorin said gently, rubbing soothing circles into his back, the way he always did when bringing him round from a nightmare. “I'm right here… I'm not going anywhere now… Just breathe with me…”

Bilbo’s breaths came short and sharp at first as he spluttered and sniffed against his husband’s chest. But after a few long minutes, with a steady stream of encouragements from Thorin, he was able to match his breaths until they were inhaling and exhaling with an easy synchronicity.

“I… I m-missed you… s-so much,” he said, wishing his words didn’t sound quite so strangled. “The nightmares c-came back… I thought… I don’t know what I thought…”

Reassured that Bilbo’s hand wasn’t going to move from its place against his chest, Thorin slowly reached up to cup his consort’s cheek, fingertips brushing through the curls at his temple. “I missed you too, ghivashel,” he said quietly. “I promise I will never leave you behind again.”

 

 

[[Link to Art]](https://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/167447294575/shipsicle-its-still-beating)

 

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a sting behind his lids. “I… I’m sorry for making such a fuss…”

“No, Bilbo, you do not ever need to apologise for this,” Thorin replied, softly but firmly. “It was wrong for me to think being parted for such a long time would be a good idea… I have suffered too, suffered enough that I believe I may have driven my kin to distraction.”

Bilbo managed a soft laugh at that, before nuzzling his nose further into Thorin’s neck.

“I see my wardrobe may have provided you with some comfort during my absence,” Thorin said, his voice coloured with obvious amusement and Bilbo could feel him smiling.

“I wish you’d left more cloaks behind,” he grumbled, nudging at his collarbone, feeling Thorin’s laugh rumble within his chest.

“Perhaps I ought to be careful, seen as my clothes do not snore or kick in the night. Nor do they rise early sometimes for council meetings…”

Bilbo only cuddled further into him with a noise of protest. “I should very much appreciate having the real Thorin Oakenshield back in my bed tonight, thank you very much.”

“Hmmm, and I shall have to make sure my presence is appreciated,” Thorin said, voice impossibly deep, trying not to chuckle at the sight of Bilbo’s ears flushing at the tips.

Bilbo made another grumbling noise and so, sensing his husband wasn’t quite ready to continue this particular conversation, Thorin didn’t comment further, only letting the two of them fall into a cosy, comfortable silence.

After a few quiet moments, he tilted his head slightly to lay a bearded cheek on Bilbo’s hair. “I love you,” he whispered, moving his hand slowly up and down Bilbo’s back.

“I love you too,” came Bilbo’s reply, as he continued to breathe Thorin in, very pleased he would no longer have to rely on a shirt or a mountain range of clothes to pretend Thorin was beside him.

Bilbo flexed his fingers against Thorin’s chest and let out a soft sigh of contentment. His husband’s heartbeat was thumping beneath his palm: it was the only sound that mattered as it filled the whole room with its thunder, banishing the silence and drowning out the fire crackling in the grate behind them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :D I just want to take the opportunity to say I hope everyone enjoys the holiday season and I wish you all the very best for 2018! 
> 
> Now, please do go and show Shipsicle some love <3


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